


The Ravenstag Café

by chapscher



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Awkward Will, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Will Graham Loves His Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9003988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapscher/pseuds/chapscher
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is the owner of a modest gourmet coffee house called The Ravenstag Café. His work is interrupted by a strange man who runs in one morning and orders several dishes of raw meat before running out. Hannibal spends the rest of the day obsessively thinking about the stranger and, not sure if he wants to butcher or court him, is determined to find out who he is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duomi/gifts).



> Happy holidays to Duomi/cnwarforged! This is my first coffee shop!AU, I hope you enjoy. It was fun building the Ravenstag.

The Ravenstag Café was one of Baltimore’s hidden gems. Those who did frequent the modest but handsome building only told their most trusted friends. If too many people knew about it the quality might dip with a demand for more conventional dishes. If the wrong people knew about it then the once-warm and elegant dining room would be filled with loud businessmen who would refuse to tip the small but courteous staff. So the café was destined to a quiet life, serving the same loyal patrons and the few curious strangers who soon joined the silent crowd.

Overall, The Ravenstag Café was destined to a life of obscurity. But, as it happens, that is exactly what Hannibal Lecter wanted for it. It fit so perfectly with the way he lived his life. His work was intimate, meant only for a select few, and reflective of the type of aesthetic he strived for. The few people who worked for him thought that this is entirely ridiculous; but even they admired his dedication to his food and their comfort. He would never change his recipes to fit any niche other than his own. And as to the loud businessmen, he had ways of dealing with rude patrons. That type of person would never be a problem.

Despite his acute attention to detail, Hannibal rarely let his attention drift from his work while he was in the middle of cooking. Perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising that he had never noticed a young man with curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses walk past the café every Saturday around eight o'clock. The man never came in on his way to his therapist’s appointment and rarely gave the café more than a sideways glance as he didn’t even slow his stride along the sidewalk. If they had seen each other, it was on accident and instantly forgotten. So when the man finally opened the door they were both immediately struck by the bizzare sensation straddling familiarity, unfamiliarity, and the haze of grasping to a dream as one drifts into consciousness.

Or perhaps Hannibal was just taken aback by this stranger rushing into his quiet coffee house; flushed, breathless, and just slightly glistening with sweat.

Hannibal stood at his antique balancing vacuum coffee maker as the stranger stared at the menu hanging behind the counter. He watched quietly as the man’s chest rose and fell. The sound of panting for air was interrupted by a self-conscious and overall unsuccessful muffling of his own exertion. Eventually he looked down at a display case of hors d'oeuvres.

The stranger tapped at the glass, pointing. “What’s _tartarmad_?”

“That is steak tartare served atop a small slice of a select rye toa-”

“-What’s in it?” The stranger interrupted. “Onion? Garlic? What?”

“It is a very simple dish prepared here with only salt, pepper, and a small suggestion of onion. The majority of the flavor comes from the quality of the meat, Sir.”

“Good, good,” the stranger said. He had been digging through his coat pockets while Hannibal was speaking. “I’ll take four.”

“Sir, are you… of course, Sir.” Hannibal said.

The stranger watched as Hannibal carefully removed four individual tartarmad from the display tray and placed them on a large, clean, white plate.

“Would you like anything else?”

“No, I’ll take it to-go.”

Hannibal glanced up at him. The strange man was still short of breath as beads of sweat formed at his brow. Quiet gasps for breath seemed to resonate in the silent café.

“That will be $20.14,” Hannibal said, glancing around the counter. “I’m sorry but I don’t seem to have a to-go box that can accommodate this. I will have to check the b-”

“No that’s fine. I’m in a rush.”

And with that, the man tossed a wadded twenty-dollar bill onto the counter along with a handful of assorted change. He picked up each of the tartarmad and, to Hannibal’s horror, stuffed them into his coat pockets before turning his heel and practically running out the door. Hannibal looked down at the small pile of money left next to the empty plate.

“Strange guy,” said a voice from the corner. Hannibal looked up to see Abigail sweeping the small hallway to the bathrooms. “Cute though.”

Hannibal scoffed. “He was exceptionally rude. Never in my life has anyone ever treated my food so disrespectfully.”

“You should have seen your face when he did.”

“He barely even knew what they were and he just stuffed them into the pockets of his filthy jacket and ran off. What kind of a place does he think this is?”

Abigail smiled to herself as Hannibal punched open the register and lay the money into the till. He regarded the leftover change and set it aside. Although Hannibal was positive that this was a one-time occurrence, he wasn’t entirely sure. It was so strange that perhaps it would happen again. The change would at least be a constant reminder to get the business card of the next person who dared pull that stunt.

“There will be plenty of tartarmad in his future,” Hannibal muttered to himself as he took the plate to the kitchen and went to look for larger to-go boxes.

 

 Noon was always busy at The Ravenstag Café. That was when all the loyal patrons filed in, placed their orders, and claimed their favorite tables. Hannibal was kept busy rushing between the register and the kitchen. He was twisting newly-made sausage links when he heard a shattering crash from the dining room. When he glanced out Abigail shot him an apologetic glance. She nodded him to the register and started picking up shards of the broken cups. Ever since the strange incident with the stranger that morning Hannibal had been keeping himself busy in the kitchen. He had calmed down significantly and by the time he finally removed his olive oil coated latex gloves he was back to his usual genial self.

He was charming with the customers, sometimes too much so. Abigail often accused him of flirting and perhaps she was right. As devoted as he was to his work, Hannibal did enjoy simply knowing that a well-timed coy smile could still leave men and women fawning over him. It was a guilty pleasure, he knew that much. But it stroked his ego so perfectly when he could make men who came in with their girlfriends end up watching him with large doe eyes. It was a game that was far too easy to get lost in, which was how the stranger managed to sneak up on him again.

Hannibal stared at the stranger for a long moment. Long strands of dark brown hair curled gently over his brow and only just over his eyes. He looked different now that he wasn’t overly flushed and panting for breath.

“How may I help you?”

“I would like four more of the tartarmad,” he said, taking out his wallet. “To go, please.”

Hannibal eyed him curiously before he opened up the cabinet. The man was a bit more polished but still seemed a little off.

“We are holding a drawing,” Hannibal said as he gently arranged the tartarmad in their box. “The winner gets a complimentary meal and two tickets to the Baltimore Museum of Art. All you need to enter is a current business card. Would you be interested in that?”

The man shrugged and fished a simple card out of his wallet. “Can’t hurt.”

“And I believe you left earlier without taking your change,” Hannibal said, not wanting to snatch up the card too quickly as his hand inched closer to it on the counter.

“Consider it a modest tip,” the man said. “And this.” He handed Hannibal a twenty and a wad of singles. “I, um, I might be back later.”

“And it will be a pleasure serving you again, Mr....” Hannibal flipped over the card on the counter.

_Will_ _Graham_   
_Instructor_   
_F.B.I. Academy_   
_Marina Corps Base Quantico, VA_

“Graham,” he finished, although those three letters struck him to the core. He wanted to say something else, but Will was already gone.

It had been a few weeks since he had last killed and he hadn’t left enough of the body for anyone to find. He was always so careful. There couldn’t be a pattern. And be hadn’t put a body on display in years. There weren’t any strange or gruesome deaths in Baltimore recently. There were no kidnappings or bomb threats or anything that would attract the attention of a government agency. Why would someone connected to the F.B.I. be simply visiting a café at least two hours out of his way? And why would he order the only dish on the menu served raw?

“Abigail,” Hannibal called out as he stepped away from the counter. Abigail looked up from her position at the espresso machine. “Can you take care of the register please? Something has come up that needs my immediate attention.”

He didn’t wait for a response as he rushed into the kitchen to grab his coat. There is no need to jump to conclusions, Hannibal reminded himself. There was no reason to expect that there is any threat. But he would be damned if he would be forced to leave his café now that he finally had an established business. Before he left, Hannibal opened the safe and took out a thousand dollars, a rag, and a vial of chloroform.  Just in case.

 

It was dark by the time Hannibal had decided that Will Graham had disappeared. As he wandered through the streets of Baltimore Hannibal went over Will’s face and clothes in his mind. Where was the cue? What about him should have been a giveaway that he worked for the F.B.I.? He didn’t have the hardened look to him that most agents had. He blushed far too easily and lacked the clinical demeanor that Hannibal was accustomed to seeing from people in his position. And then there were his eyes. They were hidden behind thick-framed glasses, resting on his nose just low enough to partially obscure direct eye-contact. But when their eyes did meet Will looked repentant. He carried with him this air of understanding through raw emotion.

Thoughts about Will flickered into Hannibal’s mind like flames licking into the cool evening air. The more he thought about it the more Hannibal needed to get to the bottom of who this Will Graham was. And with each step Hannibal knew that it was very likely that he may never see him again. What excuse could Hannibal possibly give to stepping into the F.B.I. academy? The phony business card lottery perhaps. He pictured it: approaching a modest office with a plate of beef tartarmad in his hand. Will would open the door, dressed in a sweater vest and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Will would fumble clumsily with his glasses as he puts them on and welcomes Hannibal into his office, awkward and shy as he hesitates before closing the door behind them. Gently arching curls of deep brown hair would brush over his glasses as Will would confess that he has nobody to travel to the art museum with. Would he blush when Hannibal would offer?

Stop that, Hannibal chastised himself. There’s no need to go rushing into things. After all, after a matter of days Will probably would have forgotten all about this.

The Ravenstag Café was due to close in about a half hour and Hannibal knew he had probably already been gone for too long. Abigail was very capable, he wasn’t concerned about that. But he knew that the more time he gave her the more time she had to concoct her own narratives about what Hannibal wanted with the men he hunted. He wouldn’t hear the end of it. But this time she would have been right. Will Graham was undeniably attractive.

Ending his search, Hannibal turned down the alleyway towards the café. He had taken the route many times since he had made a deal with a local heroin connection. None of his victims died lucid and nobody bothered him in the streets. So when a trash can behind a dumpster fell to the ground in the middle of a seemingly empty alleyway, it was by all means unexpected.

“You can go back if you want,” a voice said. “But I’m not leaving. I can stay here all night. I won’t go without you.”

From behind the dumpster stepped a large dog – a mutt with matted fur and crooked ears. It looked at Hannibal and stopped. The dog stared at him and barked, exposing teeth and gums. Hannibal stopped too and watched.

“Psst psst,” the voice persisted. “Hey. What’s wrong there, Theodore?”

A familiar form emerged, a man in a winter coat, curly hair, and thick-rimmed glasses. He whistled and tapped at the ground. The dog stayed focused on Hannibal until Will clicked his tongue. Only then did it turn and face Will again, its tail wagging slightly as it looked up expectantly.

“Alright,” Will said, laughter in his voice. “But you have to promise to come with me after this one. It’s my last. Do we have a deal? You were so close, Theodore. So close. The car is just around the corner.”

The dog approached Will, sniffing at his hands. Sniffing at his coat pockets.

Hannibal felt his stomach drop and hoped that he wasn’t about to see what he thought he was about to see.

Will Graham reached into his coat pocket and took out a tartarmad, holding it delicately in the palm of his hand. He broke off a small piece and held it above the dog’s head before dropping it into wide and waiting jaws.

When he opened the Ravenstag Café, Hannibal did so without any grandiose fantasies. He didn’t imagine food critics showering him with praise or Baltimore’s wealthiest lining up to get a taste of what he had to offer. But he never thought that one day someone would walk into his business, purchase forty dollars’ worth of food, and drop it, bit by bit, into the mouth of a stray dog.

“Good boy,” Will said, leading the dog out of the alleyway without a second glance.

Hannibal’s hand brushed over the chloroform and rag in his pocket. He followed them onto the sidewalk and around the corner where Will opened the back of a silver station wagon. He patted the floor of the car and the dog hopped in, tail wagging as it sniffed at an old blanket folded in the corner.

“He seems quite taken with you,” Hannibal said as soon as Will closed the back of his car.

Will turned, his back against the door. “I- I didn’t hear you walk over.”

“I’m glad to see that my cooking is so appreciated.”

“I didn’t mean you any offence,” Will said. “I usually keep a bag of dog food in the car but I ran low at home so I… I… Your café is really the only place around here where I could buy meat.”

“Yes, I suppose my cooking is a suitable substitute for dog food.”

“No! I didn’t mean…” Will ran his fingers through his hair and looked to the car. The dog had already made himself comfortable with a chew toy in the back seat. “I want to make this up to you. How about a drink?”

“I believe,” Hannibal started slowly, considering how easy it would be to overpower Will, drag him into the alleyway and render him unconscious. “I believe that the only way you could possibly make this up to me is through a proper meal at the Ravenstag. Personally overseen by me.”

“N-no, I can’t accept that.”

Tartarmad would be appropriate, but perhaps he would add Will to his private reserve. Someone to eat slowly on cold winter nights over a bottle of wine.

“I insist,” Hannibal said.

Hannibal stepped onto the sidewalk and turned to Will, watching to see if he would follow. There were only a few cars on the road that evening, and even fewer people walking. A light fog had settled onto the city, making the streetlights glow with odd halos. Their eyes met, unobstructed and inviting.

Will locked his car and followed Hannibal down the street towards The Ravenstag Café.

“I, erm,” Will stammered as he adjusted his glasses. “I never caught your name.”

“It’s Hannibal.”

“Hannibal,” he echoed as they walked past the café and Hannibal turned into the next alleyway. “Where are we going?”

“Kitchen entrance.”

It would have been easy to do it right there, but there was too much about Will he didn’t understand. He seemed too reserved and apologetic to fit into the F.B.I. What would happen to that demeanor when he is pushed? What would happen when he realized he was eating another human being? Could that pretty face even contort into an expression of disgust?

Hannibal took his keys from his pocket and walked up the small stairway leading to the back door.

Or would Will Graham be far more interesting alive?

“Your dog will be alright if we take the time for a three-course meal?”

“Three cour- um… sure. I think so.”

The door opened and the brightness from the kitchen flooded the dark alley. Will squinted into the light but still followed Hannibal.

The kitchen was spotless and without clutter, save a pot of soup that simmered on a single burner. Will looked around to the array of knives beside a small herb garden. He was so curious that he didn’t hear Hannibal lock the door behind him.

“Is it just you back here?” Will asked.

“Not always, but usually.” Hannibal hung up his coat and took Will’s. “I prepare all the food for the display cases. We have very few warm dishes, so I have time to prepare trays of hors d'oeuvres back here. Cutting and wrapping the roulades, arranging the squab drumsticks, forming the prosciutto roses, and, of course, forming the tartarmad. I enjoy the process of cooking. The meditation of it.”

“I was taken with your creations. When I first looked at the display, I… they were beautiful. I didn’t know those things could be done to food. It’s more than arrangement, it’s… it’s respectful, it’s purposeful, it’s passionate. It’s art, really.”

Hannibal was unable to hide the smile that formed in his eyes.

Will Graham could be far more interesting alive.

“Nobody has ever told me that before.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Not in so many words.”

Will smiled as he tore his gaze away from Hannibal. “Well, that’s what I saw. That, erm… that’s actually my job. Or rather what I teach people to do. I teach them to see things, to piece together details. Sometimes they call what I do as ‘making leaps’ but really I take the evidence and I-”

“Oh! Sorry.”

Hannibal and Will turned to see Abigail in the doorway with a dirty soup bowl. She looked between them. “I didn’t hear you come in. The last customers left about a few minutes ago. I just closed up. ”

“Abigail, Will Graham will be dining after hours. You may go home, of course. You must be very tired.”

“I was going to offer t- okay.” She set the bowl in the dishwasher and turned off the stove. “If you would like I could serve you two in the dining room.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Abigail looked over at Will, who leaned against the counter and seemed very interested in the floor tiles. Strands of dark brown hair fell over his eyes as he turned away from her even further.

“Hi,” Abigail chirped at him.

“Hello.”

“Abigail,” Hannibal interrupted, handing her her coat. “Thank you. That will be all.”

Abigail’s protests were cut short as Hannibal ushered her out the door. “I will see you on Tuesday,” he said, locking himself away with Will once again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Will.”

“No, I mean. I was babbling. I’m sorry. I never know how much to say. I’m not good with… erm… with people, really.” Will glanced up to Hannibal, who stepped into the walk-in freezer. “I suppose that’s why I teach instead of being out there actually putting it into practice.”

Hannibal stepped out, meat and a few vegetables in hand. “You prefer the company of dogs, it seems.”

Will coughed a laugh. “Yeah. I’ve eaten more meals with them than I have with people.”

“Any silent companion is preferable to simple banter with the wrong people.” Carrots, potatoes, and sausage went into a heavy frying pan beside the cooling pot of soup. “How many dogs do you have at home?”

“Six.” Will said, his cheeks hot. “Seven now. It’s a lot, really. More of a pack than a… but there’s plenty of room for them in Wolfs Trap. They – heh – the question really is if there’s room for me. Sometimes they sleep on my bed and there I am, sleeping with the rest of them in the living room. They’re family. I suppose if I ever bring someone home then that would be a problem, but… I don’t really...”

Hannibal smiled, stirring the food in the pan. “Tell me about your dogs.”

 

Fog had turned to rain as Hannibal and Will sat alone in the Ravenstag. The streets glistened gold from streetlamps and headlights. But inside it was warm and plates streaked with remains of oil and sauce sat between the two men. Will dragged his spoon lazily through the remains of his sanguinaccio, listening to Hannibal talk about his drawings, which lined the dining room of The Ravenstag Café, each with an impressive price tag.

“I considered returning to medical illustration,” Hannibal said, his fingertips drawing lazy patterns against the handle of his coffee cup. “But I wasn’t ready to return to the medical profession, not so soon after what happened in the ER.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It feels like I killed him. I killed him through not being able to save him.”

“I promise you,” Will said. He reached out and rested his hands against Hannibal’s. “I know killers. You aren’t like any of them.”

Hannibal looked away.  He looked away, knowing that Will was none to wiser to what he had done. And he looked away, resisting the urge to take Will’s hands into his. Will’s fingers were long and lightly calloused, possibly from the years of working on boat motors and tying flies. They rested perfectly atop the curve of Hannibal’s hands, fingertips brushing against sensitive wrists.

“Sorry,” Will said, letting go. He glanced down at Hannibal’s watch as he sat back in his chair. “I should go. Theodore has probably never been in a car before, let alone for this long.”

Hannibal nodded and stood, gathering up their dishes. “Would you like some of the meat I used for the tartarmad to take with you?”

“What? You don’t mind? I mean, I’m sure it’s-”

“Not to worry, Will. There’s plenty where that came from.”

Will followed him into the kitchen and watched as Hannibal moved quickly and silently from the dishwasher to the to-go boxes to the refrigerator. In the stillness of the kitchen he could hear the rain patter outside, collecting in gutters and rushing down drains. Hannibal too was a force of nature, his dark eyes and strong hands purposefully shifting and manipulating the world around him. Even the simple packaging of meat was undeniably commanding.

“I have included several links of sausage,” Hannibal said as he handed the box to Will. “For either your dogs or for your breakfast.”

“Thank you. I, erm, you have been very generous. And after everything that’s happened today...”

“It is no problem.” Hannibal walked Will to the kitchen exit and handed him his coat. “I have long believed it true that the most accurate judge of character there is is how well one treats animals. In this respect, you are perhaps the most noble and selfless man I have ever met.”

Will laughed and shook his head. “You might want to make some room to revise that statement.”

“I am quite confident. In fact,” Hannibal said as he took a pen from his pocket and wrote his phone number on the top of the to-go box. “If you would like to come to Baltimore again, I can make you a deal on whatever meat products I have left-over. It would be a shame to see them go to waste.”

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

They both paused just outside the door, knowing that the rain wasn’t going to stop any time soon and that if it wasn’t for Theodore they would have still been sitting in the dining room talking. Will smiled warmly and extended a hand.

“It was nice meeting you, Hannibal.”

Hannibal didn’t shake Will’s hand, but took it gently in his, thumb running over defined knuckles.

“The pleasure is all mine. _Labos nakties_ , Will Graham.” He bowed slightly as he brought Will’s hand to his lips, kissing it lightly. “Good night.”

When Hannibal looked up Will’s cheeks were glowing with a soft blush. The glare of the kitchen caught his eyes and radiated a bright blue. He let Hannibal hold his hand for a long moment before they finally let go. Neither said another word as Hannibal opened the door and Will walked down the steps into the alleyway. From the warm dry kitchen Hannibal watched him until he reached the sidewalk, turned, and disappeared behind the buildings.

He closed the door and took a deep breath. The scent of Will hung faintly in the air: dogs, engine oil, and a cheap aftershave. With anyone else he would have been repulsed, but for some reason Will transformed all of this into something endearing. Something charming and intimate. Something sensuous.

Eyes closed, Hannibal tilted his head back and simply breathed until any lingering memory of Will had vanished into the aether.


End file.
